Keeping trust with ghosts
by georgiebunk29
Summary: What would happen if Voldemort won the war? If two of the golden trio died? Hermione tries to deal with life after the final battle. With life without theboywholived. And without Ron.
1. Chapter 1

**I**

People always said that the great thing about looking after a child that wasn't your own was that you could give it back. The difficulty for Hermione was that she couldn't. Not that she didn't love April as if she was her own, but sometimes, raising a child by yourself was just- tiring. Especially if said child was beginning to exhibit signs of having the ability to create magic. While Hermione rejoiced in watching the dawning powers of her charge, wondering at the innocent joy of the girl as small balls of weir light hung above her bed, it was a different matter when other children at her school would suddenly have their lunch fly up out of their laps to land in the dust, or to open the pantry and find that the biscuits she had stored out of reach on the top shelf, had in some way found their way to a much lower shelf with several mysteriously disappearing along the way, and a nutritious dinner left nearly untouched that night.

"Tell me again April, what was it exactly that Dillon said to you?"

"That I'm weird 'cause I ain't got no daddy an' that was 'cause my daddy didn' like me!"

"He told you that you are weird because you haven't a father around and that this was because your father did not like you?"

"Yeah."

Hermione sighed. April was certainly different to a boy like Dillon, but it had nothing to do with her lack of a living father. Much as she would have liked to tell April the truth about her parents, she knew that the child was still too young to understand the whole tale and there was always the danger that she would repeat something that would find its way to the wrong ears. Instead Hermione decided to concentrate on finding out how much damage had to be undone and whether she could undo it without drawing any attention to herself.

"So after Dillon had said this to you, what did you say to him?"

"That he was mean an' ugly an' that I didn' know why his mummy likes him! An' I pointed my finger at him an' he goes blue an' starts cryin'!"

"Then what happened?"

"He turns back an' goes runnin' to th' teacher an' tells her I made him blue!" By now the girl had worked herself into tears of rage at recalling the incident.

"You can stop yelling now. You mean he turned back to his normal colour before he ran to the teacher?"

"Yeah." Instead of a yell, it was a sullen mumble accompanied by a pouting lower lip.

"What did Miss Guy say?"

"She told him to stop tellin' tales an' go out an' play with his friends."

"Did she speak to you also?"

"Yeah."

"What did she say April?"

"That I mustn't tease the other children. Or tell 'em they're blue. An' I told her what he said an' she said I mustn't listen or… or…"

"React?"

"Yeah. React."

It seemed that the damage had sorted itself out this time. Fortunately the teacher hadn't witnessed the incident, but April would start to get a reputation with the other children if this happened again. Hermione didn't want to have to switch April to another school. St. Aubrey's was the only school that taught first language English in the city. April received plenty of exposure to French, indeed, it was her second language, but Hermione thought the girl's parents would have wanted her to go to school with other English children, especially if by some miracle she ever attended Hogwarts. Secretly, Hermione also harboured the hope that she and April would return to live in England one day in the future.

However, in the meantime, April was having difficulties with the other children. Hermione knew it didn't really have anything to do with April's parenting arrangements; there were plenty of single parent families around in this day and age. What the children were really trying to punish April for was something they couldn't quite put their fingers on. Quite simply they sensed that she possessed abilities beyond their own. Magic.

Unfortunately, April couldn't simply be taught not to use her magic. It was as uncontrollable and as instinctive to a witch of her age as having emotions. In fact, strong emotions were what caused it to manifest itself. Therefore, all Hermione could do was to address the source of the problems. In this case, April's anger with what that brat Dillon had said.

She gathered the child onto the couch with her. "April you know you have a father. His name was Harry and he died before you were born- that's why he isn't with you. I know he would have liked you very much. I'm sad you never got a chance to meet each other. You would have liked him too."

"How did he die?"

"It was an accident, a terrible accident." A murder so horrid…

"An' my mummy? Ginny?"

Freckled cheeks and a cheeky smile. "She loved you very, very much. Both your parents were my very dear friends." How could they be gone? "It has been my joy to look after you- their daughter. I only wish you could have met them." I only wish they could have stayed…

"What were they like?"

Ah. That question. How to describe two of the people whom she had loved best in the world? Harry, so passionate and brave, loyal and so convinced he was right. Dying so young for something beyond his control. And Ginny, beautiful, devoted to Harry and her family, intelligent, full of life. And stubborn. Ron. As always when she thought of April's parents, Ron followed them into her thoughts as he had followed Harry in life. Except with her. Ron, not Harry, had been the first person she had spoken to on the Hogwarts express all those years ago. Ron had been the first into her heart.

"Auntie Hermione?"

April's face looking up at her. April- so much like her young mother. Yet when Hermione looked at her, it was often Ron she saw. Ron's stubbornness, his kindness and his impulsiveness. She felt as though she suddenly had a snitch lodged in her throat.

"Your father was brave- very brave. He was loyal and loving. He was clever and determined. Your mother was so beautiful. She was younger than your father and I, but she would always want to help us. She was very smart, and so funny. She could dance like an angel. We were at school together when they fell in love." When Ron and she fell in love. "They wanted to change the world. We all did."

"But what did they look like?"

"Your father had dark hair- it would never lie neatly, but always did its own thing. His eyes were green-"

"An' mummy had red hair like me!"

"That's right. You look very much like your mother. She had red hair just like yours. All her family did. She had six brothers and they all had bright red hair!" Her hand tangled in his hair, his head resting on her breast. "Her eyes were brown like yours also, but a little darker." Funny how she could remember such details even now. Even when it grieved her that she couldn't picture their faces as a whole anymore. The little things still stuck.

"Do you have a picture?"

It had only been a matter of time. Hermione had been waiting for that question for a while now. As April grew and the need to explain her origins had presented itself, Hermione had known that one day the girl would want to see a picture of her parents.

In all the time Harry, Ron, Ginny and herself had together, they had neglected to take pictures of themselves. Oh, undoubtedly it wouldn't be too difficult to find an old paper with a picture of the famous Harry Potter, but Hermione wanted April to see not the-boy-who-lived or the-hero-who-died-to-save-the-world, but Harry as she had known him, a boy with his friends and his girlfriend, enjoying their time at Hogwarts.

The Harry that she had known in the last year of his life, a gaunt man, focussed to the exclusion of normal emotion, devastatingly aware of the final chapter of his young existence, was equally a person she neither wanted to remember nor share with April.

The problem was, in those early years, when they'd been so carefree- relatively speaking- so very young, they were always together and felt they always would be. What need for a photograph of themselves, when they could just turn to one another and immerse themselves in their constant bond?

Even as the days grew darker, even as they lost those around them, it never occurred that they would need a picture to hold each other, for what could ever separate friends such as they? And then that final time, when they realised just how much they stood to loose, when time was so rushed and they clutched at it with frantic fingers only to feel it slip away and be lost. Who could have thought of anything so mundane as a picture when they were submerging themselves in each other, gasping those last desperate moments, like an elixir to sustain themselves for the rest of a lifetime? Just in case. For who ever truly believes they will lose until it happens?

Hermione looked back on her younger self and she cursed her, and she envied her and she pitied her.


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

Anyone watching Hermione over the next few days would have noticed some odd behaviour. She spent many hours sitting at her window, staring into a bowl of water, or at a candle flame. Mute and motionless, she would appear to be unconscious, barely breathing, but her eyes, beneath her autumnal tresses, would be focussed and sharp, riveted on the object of her contemplation. But the strangest thing of all was the times she chose for this activity- dawn, dusk and midnight, casting an alarm spell to make sure she was awake at the right hour.

It was on his fifth night in Berlin that Neville first saw Hermione in his dreams. Just a fleeting glance of her, but significant because she did not belong in the dream she had invaded. Not that she hadn't featured in many of his dreams over the years, but usually they were memories, or she was there behaving strangely in an environment not her own, but in context, as the folk of one's dreams usually do, easily forgotten in the morning.

This was different; she suddenly appeared in the middle of the scene, glanced at him and disappeared again. Almost as though she had discovered a way to apparate in and out of a person's dreams. Most peculiar of all however, was that this Hermione was not the girl he had known at Hogwarts, or even the woman he had met in France five years ago, but an older incarnation, subtly different, with new lines around the eyes and a countenance softened by the passing of the years.

The next night, as he prepared for bed after a day of long talks with friends and those who might be inclined to be sympathetic to his cause, he fleetingly remembered the previous night's strange occurrence and wondered if he would see his old friend again.

Sure enough, his dreams that night were peopled by many of the companions he had been at school with, including the younger Hermione he had known, but it was not the strange vision of the night before. Not until just before he awoke did she appear again, this time reaching out toward him and opening her mouth to speak- unfortunately, just as she did so, the spell he had cast to wake himself activated, and he jerked awake. For a moment, he cursed, annoyed that he had missed what she was saying, before reality kicked in and told him it was only a dream. Then he wondered what his psychiatrist Alex would have to say.

It was not until the fourth time that she visited him in his sleep, that Hermione was finally able to convey her message. "Neville." Her voice at least was the same as of old. "Neville, if you can hear me, next time you're in France, come to Paris. I work at the central library."

As Neville walked toward the library- one couldn't just apparate into the middle of a muggle building- he briefly wondered what he was doing. What credence could he place in a dream? He hadn't seen Hermione in five years. Even that was only for a few short hours. They hadn't been close friends since he was twenty, in those awful months following the deaths of Harry and Ron. Then there came the night when she suddenly appeared in his room, shushing his questions, telling him that she had to leave, would disappear from everyone who loved her, who wanted to support her. Before he could beg her to stop for a moment and talk it over with him, she had told him to look for her at the whumping willow and disapperated again.

When Ginny had died so suddenly in the attack a few months later, leaving her daughter parentless, and what was left of her family in tatters, Neville had gone to the whumping willow in desperation, knowing that Hermione might be the only one who could help.

He had found a message burned into the tree, a series of nonsense words. Above them, the words "read aloud." And below, "the Gryffindor fireplace." Dutifully he had sounded out the syllables, using the general wizarding dialect. As he enunciated the final consonant, the words on the tree had smouldered red. When nothing more had happened, he had gone into the castle, learned the password from McGonagall and greeted the Fat Lady for the last time. Ensuring no students were in the common room, he had taken the most comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace. He'd had some idea what to expect, but all the same when two hours passed without anything happening, he had considered giving it up as a failed attempt, but just then Hermione's head had appeared, floating deep in the flames. She had not given him a chance to talk, but rattled off the directions to a pub in the outskirts of Paris and a date six days from then and disappeared again.

It had taken him five days to convince Fred, Percy and Charlie to let him take April away.

Now here he was, following a trail that seemed even more ephemeral than the last. No method of communication he had ever heard of had included invading someone's dreams, but then, Hermione had always seemed to know more than anyone else. At first he'd ignored the dreams, but when she appeared the seventh dawn in a row, Neville had called his grandmother for advice. Gran had told him to trust in Hermione, but then, she had always liked her as a girl. Finally, he found himself scheduling a morning free to visit Paris. He told himself he would check it out and when he'd made sure that the dreams were just that, he'd go back to his meetings, back to his life that made sense and forget about dreams and people who were gone. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the steps of the library and under the marble arch.


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

**Note: **_Any words that appear in italics are spoken in French. Sorry, I don't speak French but it was necessary for a realistic story._

Hermione had begun to doubt the attempt was working. It had been over a month since she had started trying to contact Neville, and surely if it had worked he would have come by now. She knew enough about his movements to know he was often in Europe, and the Neville she had known would never have ignored a direct plea from a friend. Five years couldn't have changed a person so much. Well it hadn't changed her anyway.

She sighed and considered her options as she typed in the details on the new assortment of books that had come in. Perhaps she could risk a trip into Paris' central wizarding district on the weekend? She would have to ask someone to look after April though and finding a muggle to trust with a young witch, especially if for some reason Hermione's return was delayed- but she refused to consider that. No, she would have to think of some other way.

At that moment Marguerite appeared beside her console. Hermione finished her sentence and glanced up inquiringly. "_There's a young man_ _arrived wanting to speak to you Hermione. Gave the name Neville Longbottom._"

Hermione smiled brilliantly at the woman, momentarily startling her, Hermione did not often smile so. "_Thank you, Marguerite. That's wonderful news._" And then she did something Marguerite had never seen her do, she immediately stood up and walked away from her desk- ignoring the books stacked there, leaving the screen with a half filled out document and uttering no request about having it dealt with.

As Hermione walked toward the information desk in the Library foyer, she was filled with the pride of success, battling with feelings of uncertainty and eagerness. Much as she was looking forward to seeing Neville, one of her closest friends, for the first time in so long, she instinctively knew that the sight of him would trigger feelings and memories best left forgotten. Already she was fighting not to remember the circumstances surrounding their last meeting… and earlier, darker memories associated with those.

He had come to the pub she had specified at midday, wearing a long lilac coat and carrying a large cloth backpack. They had greeted each other fondly as old friends, but felt the long shadows of those who weren't present reaching out to embrace them.

Haltingly, Neville had told her of Ginny's death. Hermione had been devastated. Immediately shocked fully back into her raw grief for Ron, Harry and her parents, as well as everyone else they had lost, that she struggled to contain below the surface most of the time, she had caused quite a scene in the tavern before Neville had been able to help her leave. They had gone down to the park and sat on a bench. She had curled herself into his warm arms and they had cried together, there in that deserted place, with the late winter snow melting into mud around them. It was the first time she'd had close human contact in over a year.

When she'd had her release and been able to control herself- for the time being- he had opened the backpack and lifted from it a sleeping child. Hermione had sat there in renewed shock, unable to fathom why Neville would be carrying around a child, a child he had ensorcelled to remain asleep so that she had never even suspected its presence.

When he told her that it was Ginny's daughter, she had not been surprised at her existence- Ginny had been drawing toward the end of her pregnancy when Hermione left England- but that Neville should have her.

Uncertainly he had told her that the child's only remaining family was her three uncles, none of whom were in a position to care for her. Undoubtedly the Dark Lord's minions would be looking for her. He had begged Hermione to take her, claiming it was the only thing he could think of to keep the child safe and cared for. Hermione had refused. How could Neville think she could take this baby and look after her properly? She had barely been able to care for herself since… since that afternoon. The child belonged with her family, whoever was left.

Then Neville had told her that Harry and Ginny would have wanted it this way; that they would have regarded her as the child's family as much as Ginny's brothers were. That she owed it to them.

So Hermione, who had never gotten over the guilt of still living when they did not, and who always had, and always would, do anything for them, had accepted the responsibility Neville had given her. And from the moment she looked down into baby April's sleeping angel face, she rediscovered a meaning for her life, and even, sometimes, joy.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

At first sight Neville looked the same as he had in the pub that afternoon, if somewhat more inconspicuous. He had finally grown into his awkward limbs during his seventh year and had broadened through the shoulder and chest. By the time he turned nineteen Neville had become a well built young man and lost much of the gawky clumsiness of his adolescent self. But the trials of the years since Dumbledore's death, including the loss of his mother when she was so close to recovery, had etched themselves sharply into his face and given a tragic cast to his eyes, rendered him gaunt and untidy. Now five years on and seen close to, it was hard to remember that unhappy young man. The man in front of her was dressed impeccably in a black muggle suit and pinstriped pink shirt. He was clean shaven, had neatly combed hair and what appeared to be a Rolex on his left wrist. Most strikingly changed though was his face, which had lost many of the lines of sadness, swapping them for marks of character and maturity. He still had a small scar on his chin, gained during a scrap with Crabbe and Goyle during seventh year, but it was faded almost to invisibility by time.

Hermione's breath caught as she looked at him and he stood frozen staring at her, then she was able to move, throwing herself into his arms, which instinctively opened to catch her. She clutched his broad shoulders and buried her face at his throat, inhaling his masculine scent, beginning to cry against his neatly pressed collar. "Hermione. Hermione" he muttered against her hair. His arms holding her tightly to him. "Merlin! I can't believe I found you! I didn't want to hope!" He lifted her away from himself, clasping her arms, eager eyes scanning across her features, gazing into hers. "It's so wonderful to see you!"

"Neville-" she stuttered. She felt his strong grasp on her arms, knew he was really there. Peripherally she was aware of the people around them who had all stopped to see what the commotion was… decided she didn't care. "Neville, you came."

"Of course I came Hermione. But how did you do it?"

"The dreams? An ancient-" she stopped, about to say 'magic'. "But we can't talk here. You weren't followed? Then come home with me."

Hermione's flat wasn't far from the library. They didn't speak much on the bus ride, just looking, trying to soak in each other's appearance after so long, trying not to let memories overwhelm them. Neville thought Hermione was pale, but perhaps that was her normal complexion, she still bit her lip he noticed. It was strange, even now, to see her without Ron, Harry or even Ginny at her side; they had always been so inseparable.

She looked well for the most part, conservatively dressed- as befit a librarian he supposed- hair tied back in a manageable knot on her nape, its exuberance tamed by an army of bobby-pins. She wore little make-up, just some subtle colour around the eyes and mascara on the lashes. Her face was as it had appeared in his dream; a little older-looking, a few extra lines about the eyes and on her brow. She did not look happy precisely, but it was not the weary, ill-looking countenance of their last meeting, or her final months in England. She looked… peacefully resigned, content with what she had made of her new life.

He wondered what that involved. What was April like now? She would be six. Did she look like Ginny or Harry? Briefly he wondered where she stayed while Hermione was at work. Was there a man in their life? Was he perhaps the one who looked after April during the day? Had she found love after Ron or someone she could rely on to share her daily existence? Or did they survive on their own? April staying with some friend they had made here in France or perhaps a helpful neighbour?

"This is it." The bus had come to a halt on a street lined with apartment blocks. It was not an unpleasant area; there were a few established trees, the buildings were all well maintained, the road not despoiled by litter, the bus stop was a proper one with three walls and a roof. It just appeared very… practical. The buildings were all brown brick or off-white paint, the doors all white-painted wood, blinds down on most of the windows and no gardens to care for. There was no sign of individuality.

Hermione set off at a brisk pace down the street and Neville fell in step beside her, after a couple of hundred metres she nudged him to turn right, crossed the grass verge and the footpath and walked up the front steps of a building that looked exactly like any other on the street. She fumbled around in her bag for a few moments, before producing a key, turning the lock and stepping inside. She held the door for Neville, and then without giving him a chance to look around, walked through to the lifts and pushed the up button. The doors immediately slid open and they stepped in. Neville, who was by now quite accustomed to muggle elevators, watched without any particular interest as the doors slid shut and she pushed a button for her floor. The lift lurched into motion and he listened to the high pitched chime as each number above the door lit up. It halted on the sixth floor, the doors opened and they walked down the hallway to door 604. Hermione slid the key in again and they stepped into her home.

Neville smiled appreciatively as he took in the decor. The walls were a soft gold with matching curtains and she had deep ruby covers on her couches and a carpet under the coffee table of a similar shade. Hanging on one wall was an oversized old print of a bewigged woman in an evening dress who looked remarkably like the Fat Lady. "Hermione!" he exclaimed. She turned to see what he was looking at.

"Yes. It's a bit much I know, but I saw it one day in an antiques store, covered in dust and with no price tag. The woman who owned the store wasn't interested in a worthless old print- she just wanted money for the frame- and when I told her it reminded me of someone I had lost, she gave it to me."

"I think it's wonderful. All of it."

"I wasn't sure at first and it was so hard to do, but now it brings me pleasure, mostly. My good memories reside in Hogwarts."

He hesitated-"Then they don't bring you pain anymore?"

"I wouldn't say that- it still aches, but it's bittersweet and all I have. I would have nothing but April otherwise."

And Neville knew right then that she had never recovered. Perhaps never would. They had been so young, but she and Ron had been destined for each other. Fate had cheated on that day when he was lost.

Neville could only be grateful that he had never loved so deeply. Oh, it had hurt like a heart wound to loose his parents again, especially when he had been starting to feel so hopeful about his mother- he might never stop grieving for them and others, but in a way they had always been lost to him, and he still had Gran; she was remarkably spry for a woman in her eighties. No, Neville had never lost on a scale to equal Hermione. She had lost her friends and mentors, her parents, Ginny and Harry. She had lost Ron. She had even had to leave the tatters of her life and her country.

Hermione turned away as Neville looked at her. She knew what he was thinking, knew he would be realising that she had never let go, knew he pitied her. Surprisingly she didn't mind. This was Neville; he would know what the heart ache felt like, he had been there too, in that dark place that could be hidden, buried away in the corner of your unconscious, almost forgotten, until some sight, a scent, or a fragment of song, brought it sneaking from its cave, as powerful as ever and ready to engulf you.

They said that time healed all wounds; that you just lived through each day at a time and it got easier, until eventually it went away completely. Hermione knew better. There were some wounds that were etched so deeply on the soul, that so scarred the spirit, that one never recovered, but was left ever aching and vulnerable to the slightest prod. No amount of happy moments could fill that hole, or replace what was lost.

She was only twenty-six, but Hermione knew that some part of her life was over. Some part of her was dead. Even if Harry or her parents had lived, even if she had not been the sole witness of that awful hour, she knew that she would never truly love again, her heart had been Ron's and, with the exception of the small part she kept for April and her old friends who survived, like Neville, he had taken it with him into the next place, or left it to freeze in the endless winter of his absence.

Hermione moved about the kitchen, putting on the kettle, taking out some dried fruit and cheese to put on a tray- impulsively opening a bottle of red and dusting off a second wine glass. She carried it all through to the low wooden table in the living room. "I was going to offer you coffee, but would you say no to a glass of wine?" She so rarely had company.

"A glass of wine sounds perfect. What do you have here? Ah, a French pinot noir. May I do the honours?" At her nod, he deftly twisted the screw cap- a surprising addition considering that screw caps had not yet really taken off outside of New Zealand and Australia; the English and European connoisseurs were proving somewhat intractable over the break with tradition- and poured a small amount to taste, which he did expertly. Hermione watched, surprised, she had not really expected Neville, even this newly stylish model, to be an authority on wine. Some things definitely had changed in the years they'd been apart.

"Lovely." He proceeded to pour a generous amount into both glasses, handed hers across and came round to sit next to her on the couch. For a moment there was a surprisingly comfortable silence.

"So you know about me now. Live here, work at the library, and, obviously, look after April… What's your life been like the last five years?" She took a sip of wine and glanced up at him from under her bangs- she had let her hair down once she got home. Neville noticed it was as long and soft looking as ever. Though she never had managed to tame her curls.

"Oh, you know, OK." What to say? How did you tell someone the last five years of your life?

"You can do better than that Neville. Start at the beginning… what did you and your Grandmother do after you left me with April?" As always, Hermione's intuition for another's thoughts had taken her right to the heart of the issue. Neville had never understood why some people thought she was book absorbed and unconscious of those around her- Hermione had always been one of the most insightful and caring people he had known.

He took her advice. "Well after I left you, I returned to England only long enough to pack up some of our valuables, which were few enough- and the things we couldn't bear to leave behind- and then Grandmother and I took a commercial port key to America. We went to New York- it seemed appropriate somehow, to start our new life there. I got a job in a local magical artefact importer's- just low warehouse labour you understand, but it was a start- and we rented a small flat- we had very little in the way of money, most of my grandmother's savings had gone into my parents' care over the years. Within a couple of months, I was promoted to clerical work, my manager told me that he had noticed I was far more dedicated and serious than the other young men I worked with, which was true- he just never knew why.

"We were getting along OK. Somewhat lonely; Gran was on her own a lot of the time and I found it difficult to relate to the guys at work- they were mostly interested in their girlfriends, or lack of them. The more serious were thinking about whether to keep going with their education or whether to invest in a house. They had no idea what was going on back home and I found it hard to talk to them about it- they couldn't relate, and I found it difficult to relate to their concerns, they seemed so simplistic when I was worrying about whether my remaining friends would survive. Mourning my parents and the others who hadn't. Imagining a million ways to get rid of the Dark Lord and his cronies.

"One Sunday- I worked six days a week- I had taken Gran out to lunch. It was a rare treat, I had received a bonus that week and we decided to splash out. I suppose we had been in America about four or five months at that point-. Anyway, while we were eating, my Gran was looking around the restaurant and suddenly she stood up and cried out 'Harriet!' Well naturally I had no idea what was going on, but then another elderly woman stood up from a small cluster of them at a table on the far side of the room and called out "Jeanie? Is that you? Little Jeanie?" And they rushed across the room toward each other and started embracing.

"It turned out that Harriet Edmunds, or Harriet Pike- as she had been when Gran knew her, had been the best of friends with my Gran when they were in the same year at Hogwarts together- in Gryffindor House. They lost contact when Harriet moved to America with her husband about fifty years ago. It was wonderful for my grandmother of course- within a week she had been absorbed into a bevy of witches of her own age, which gave her something to do while I was at work. Before long she and Harriet had become close friends again and I began to hear a lot about Harriet's son Alex.

"It seemed he had been born to her late in life, when she and her husband had almost given up hope of a child. Unfortunately their great joy was marred because he had been born a squib-" He felt Hermione stir beside him- "I understand your feelings Hermione, but this was several decades ago and even in America squibs are regarded as being, at best, less fortunate than other wizarding folk.

" Anyway, to explain I suppose I should describe the American wizarding community somewhat: While it is still a secret from muggles, the wizards themselves have decided it is to their benefit to understand muggle society. Therefore, young witches and wizards grow up learning about muggle ways and as adults they often become far more involved in muggle society than happens here or in England. Wizards will even take up muggle professions if they discover an aptitude for them- the private business world is especially popular and many wizards have become quite wealthy working for muggles. Certainly, your average wizard is far more comfortable negotiating his way around muggle society than here. In many ways, therefore, it was easier for young Alex, lacking magic, to grow up in that world. He knew he could have a productive, meaningful life, even with his handicap.

"As a teenager, he asked to be sent to a muggle school, where he specialised in maths, accounting and humanist subjects- no doubt you know what I am talking about. He attained excellent grades and proceeded to study business at a muggle university, taking several papers in psychology- which was his pet interest- on the side. When he graduated he joined a large business firm and swiftly worked his way up the ranks.

"When I met him he was about to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday, was earning nearly a million dollars a year and had recently got engaged to the daughter of the company he worked for, which pretty much guaranteed him a seat on the board. For a wizard with his inauspicious start in life, he had done very well for himself. Yet, despite all logic, he had never forgotten his roots.

"Even before he met my Gran and I, he had been watching events in England with concern- I suppose he saw, when many missed it, what was in the wind for squibs and muggle-born folk at home. When we finally met, he was vastly interested in what I had to tell him. I liked him immediately of course, he was everything I was not and yet seemed to have no conceit- he was a fabulous listener, and had a maturity beyond his years. It was not many meetings before I found myself spilling the whole story to him: about the Dark Lord's return and the loss of my parents, Harry, Ron and Ginny, the other deaths, Dumbledore and even Cedric Diggory. The fear and the constant heart ache. You leaving. Fleeing myself, and my fears for my friends. By this point I was crying- fortunately we were at his flat- his muggle fiancée Liz was there also- and not in public. I began to ramble on about my parents and Harry's parents and the first rise of the Dark Lord.

"And then Alex did something amazing. He began to talk to me and encourage me to tell specific parts of my story- the parts which were the most painful. After a couple of hours I felt far better than I had in a long time. He then told me that he had trained in the muggle medicine of the mind known as psychiatry, and that he believed that if I would allow him to help me, together we might cure many of hurts that he called 'scars on my unconscious'.

"I was sceptical of course. I doubted that any experimental human medicine could cure me of the horrors I held inside, but by then we had become friends and I could see this was something that meant a lot to him, so I let him try. We had therapy sessions once a fortnight over the next few months and, gradually, I came to notice a change in myself. It became far easier for me to use my magic, and my spells worked far more often than they had in the past. Also, my memory seemed to improve somewhat. When I finally mentioned these changes to Alex, he said that he had suspected that something of the sort would happen. The reason I had been having problems all along, he believed, was not natural ineptitude, but my unconscious suppressing my ability to do magic because I had been scarred early on by learning what had happened to my parents and had, in some way, become unconsciously afraid of my own powers and existence as a wizard. Naturally, he said, this suppression of my abilities would increase at times when I felt stressed or afraid."

Hermione breathed in deeply and Neville felt a sigh leaving her body. He wondered if perhaps she was reasoning this out for herself, weighing the likelihoods and deciding whether to believe him. Evidently she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, because she smiled up at him with real warmth. Neville felt a small heat kindle into existence somewhere in the region of his heart. It meant a lot that Hermione believed him. That she had smiled at him like that.

"So-" he continued, "Alex had cured me- so to speak- and then he changed my life again. During all this time, Tom Riddle had been quietly consolidating his power in England and now Alex told me that his studies of Riddle- studies I was not aware of him even conducting- had led him to the same supposition as me- that Tom Riddle was really the Dark Lord- Voldemort- in disguise. Further to this, he told me that he had decided to fund and head an organisation, to assist the exiles of the English wizarding community and discredit Riddle, displacing him from power, if it could not rid the world of him entirely. A sort of international Order of the Phoenix if you will. He had no name for this organisation as of yet. It was I who suggested the 'DA'. Of course he understood the reference- I had told him of Harry's group many times- and thought it a most humorous assignment.

"But the most astonishing part of it all was that he wanted me to head the European arm of the organisation. I was to remain under his tutelage in America, where he would begin, and then, when the time was right, initiate the next stage over here. So I resigned from my job and went to work for him as his personal assistant. I learned muggle business and how to dress and act in their society and watched the extraordinary growth of the DA under Alex. I even picked up a basis in European and Asian languages and international negotiation as Alex insisted I be present at all his meetings, muggle and magical.

"At the end of a couple of years, Alex told me that the organisation was well established in America and ready to branch out. He paid for Gran to live in an apartment near the one he rented for his mother, so that I would not have to worry about her while I was away. And then I came over here and set to work.

"In the twenty months since, Alex has funded and guided me as I created the European branch of the DA. Several months ago he started his own business in muggle computer software and invited me to be a partner in the firm. I now manage the European branch of that also. It's really taken off. For the first time in my life, I'm independently wealthy and I'm also helping to dethrone Riddle. I owe it all to Alex. He's the most amazing person. I wish you could meet him- I know you would like each other."

Hermione stared up at Neville. She noted somewhat sadly that his face was lit with the same fervour that used to appear whenever he talked of Harry's exploits. This Alex, whatever he was, had created miracles for Neville. He was no longer the nervy, incompetent young man he had been. He was successful and charming, and doing something to change the reality that they lived in, fulfilling himself. Momentarily she felt a stab of envy- why had Neville gained all this when the rest of them had been so unlucky. Ron, Harry and Ginny dead, herself a lonely exile, working at a dead end job in the library. They had all had such potential, such dreams! What was the justice that had taken all that from them before they had a chance to use it?

Immediately she felt shame. This was Neville- her friend. And he was doing something that so few- including herself- had the courage to do. She remembered the night he had stood up to the three of them leaving the common room- she had stunned him and left him unconscious on the floor. She wondered if he still remembered that, or felt any of the guilt that she did from that night.

He was looking down at her with a question in his brown eyes and she wondered if he could sense her thoughts in any way. "Neville-" she said, "that's wonderful. I'm so happy for you. And so proud." She couldn't keep the wobble from her speech, "You're doing what we all wanted to do."

And he kept looking at her, reading her face, and then he said the words that would change her life, in the same way that Alex had changed his, though at the time neither of them recognised it for a miracle. "Hermione… Will you join me? Will you help me?"


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

Neville watched Hermione's reaction. People always said that you could read someone's emotion in their eyes. This was nonsense of course, but often you could get an idea of what people were feeling by their expression- including the movements of the small, sensitive muscles around the eyes.

He watched Hermione's eyes widen slightly and guessed that she was surprised by his offer. The beginnings of a smile creased the corners of her cheeks, before frown lines developed on her forehead and her whole face tightened. He knew then that something about his plan worried her.

"I won't say I'm not flattered Neville. This is something that I would love to do- five years ago I'd have jumped at the chance. I- I always wanted to do something like this. Helping people. Not to mention getting rid of that bastard." Her face looked hard then. "But- I just can't. I have responsibilities now. What about April? She'd have to leave her school- her home. And how could I know she would be safe? Voldemort's probably still after us- she's Harry Potter's daughter!"

For a brief moment Neville had been caught on Hermione's reference to April's school. What was a six-year-old doing at school? Then he realised that Hermione must be raising the girl in the muggle way- as Hermione herself had been raised. That was where the girl stayed while Hermione was at work then…Well that was no issue, Hermione would soon realise that the girl could just as easily be raised in the wizarding way. And a six-year-old wouldn't have any problem going on a "holiday" away from home for a while- that was just Hermione's insecurity speaking. He wondered if either of them had any friends to leave behind?

"Hermione, Voldemort has no interest in the child any longer- or you for that matter. Harry's dead" she flinched, "and he's securely ensconced as Minister of Magic, with all internal opposition defeated. What does he have to fear from a young girl and a muggle-born exile like yourself? Whatever his faults, Voldemort never had any insecurities about his own power or position-"

"But don't you understand Neville? Even if he's not after us any more- and I'll never believe that- the work you're doing is conspicuous- by its very nature- and directly opposed to him. How can anyone involved in your operation be safe?"

"That's the whole point Hermione. Our safety is guaranteed because we make ourselves so conspicuous. Voldemort has been very careful to assume power legally and through the proper channels-" Hermione started to interrupt angrily, but Neville overrode her, "-or at least that's the appearance he's given to the rest of the world. You and I know the truth, and others, but people over here and in America want to believe the best- otherwise this becomes their problem- they have a moral obligation to get involved.

"He's not strong enough to take on other magical communities- at least, not yet- and so he can't afford to give them any reason to doubt him. Public opinion can only be lead so long- that's the basis we're working on anyway. The things we're saying about him- and we're saying them very publicly- aren't good for his image. But if he has us silenced it lends credence to what we say. He's in a dilemma. Yes, he undoubtedly wants us all dead or howling under the crucius, but any overt move against us would be showing his hand far too publicly. Not to mention that we've managed to convert many prominent foreign wizards and witches to our cause- who would continue our work even if we were unable- whom he can't afford to attack because it would all to easily be seen as an attack against their nations as well. So you see, you'd hardly be moving into a war zone."

Hermione sat silently for a moment. Too many emotions were warring within her for her to think rationally. She understood what Neville was saying- there was logic in it- but all her senses were screaming that to involve April in this would be foolhardy. It was her duty to protect the child- not to mention that she loved her- the thought of any harm coming to her was enough to make her insides clench in pain. However, at the same time a part of her- a part that had been silent for a long time now- was crowing that this would be a way to get at Voldemort. This was something she could do to get the bastard.

Hermione had never been bloodthirsty. When she'd first promised Harry to aid him in the fight, it had been out of a sense of duty and love for her friend. A way to stay with him and Ron as they satisfied their sense of righteous anger. Yes, she had wanted an end to the fear and discrimination, she'd been angry over Sirius' and Cedric's deaths, the deaths of those in the first war. The loss of Dumbledore had hardened her. Yet had it not been for Harry and Ron she would never have sought Voldemort's end. She had thought it was not in her nature to want to bring death to another living being, no matter how evil she knew him to be.

Then had come that awful day. Not only had she lost both Ron and Harry, but to loose them in such a way, to witness it, to be haunted eternally by the nightmares and the memories. To watch the successive deaths of others she knew and loved. Hermione had learned hate. Once the shock had passed, her anger, so white hot, had cooled and become a lump of something cold and hard inside her. At times she forgot it, distracted by softer emotions and day-to-day cares, but then her memory would be triggered and she would feel it swell inside her, a darkness that lurked on the edge of what remained of her soul, separate, yet intangibly connected with that other dark beast- her grief. It was mindless and it would never be sated. It had only one target: Voldemort and his supporters. And when she felt it move inside her, she knew that reason was not the only force that worked strongly upon her; some part of her wanted only to hurt- to hurt him- and would take any means it could. Hermione wanted Voldemort to die screaming in pain for what he had taken from her- and what's more, she wanted to be the one that killed him.

At times these emotions scared her and now was one of them- how could she risk April's happiness and safety for her own twisted desires. Killing Voldemort wouldn't bring Ron back. She had to live for today and the future. And Neville would have to wait for his answer. Wait until she'd had a chance to think calmly, rationally and without emotion- the way she had always done best.

"I need time Neville. It's too big a decision to just make it now. I need time to decide what's best. You can give me that can't you?"

"Of course you can have time. I never meant to rush you. I just wanted you to know that it could work. That I wanted you to come. Take as long as you like." He smiled in a manner he hoped was reassuring.

She smiled back. "Thankyou."

He sat for a moment wondering what to say now. One didn't easily drop bombshells and then make easy conversation out of nothing. "So… How did you manage to get inside my dreams anyway?"

She laughed. "Then it worked the way it was supposed to? I wasn't sure- I've never tried that sort of magic before."

Why now then? But she was carrying on with her explanation:

"I'll start from the beginning- it makes for a better story." Crinkles around the eyes signalled a gentle smile. She had always had a beautiful smile- especially once she'd had her front teeth shrunk. Something about it brought warmth to the person it was bestowed on. Ron had always spoken softly of that smile.

"Years ago at Hogwarts I came across a reference in a book about speaking through dreams. In this version a woman had spoken to her lover across a great distance when they were divided by fate. Naturally I thought nothing of it at the time- lovers are always doing the impossible for each other- but every now and then I would come across another reference to it. Always they were in the very oldest of scrolls, but the thing that piqued my interest was that such communications seemed to occur in many different situations and between many types of people. Lovers, yes of course, but also friends and relatives, people working together to achieve their aims- though their relationship was fairly impersonal- as orders from one wizard to another of lower rank or servants, even sometimes as threats between opponents.

"Of course once I'd noticed this, I simply had to figure out whether this was a real magic or not. And the first thing I deduced was that these accounts of dream speaking hadn't been recorded for their own value, but as part of a larger fabric of events. By which I mean, they were only included if their happening influenced whatever the record was about. This of course gave credence to their reality as most of the events they were supposedly involved in were real recorded wizarding history, often a series of events that could not realistically have come about were it not for either the dream speaking or some other currently unrecognised form of communication.

"So then I set out to find out how it was possible to speak to someone through their dreams. But no matter how many references I found- and some actively suggested the use of dream speaking in various situations- I couldn't find a single record of the method. Eventually I decided that once dream speaking had been such a common art that no long term records had been kept as it was assumed one would know how to do it.

"So then what was I to do? Well, I very nearly gave up at that point. But then I went home for the holidays and cleaned out my room. And as I did so I came across an old book of muggle faery tales I had enjoyed as a child. And in that book was a story about a princess whose dreams are haunted by an evil witch. And that's when it occurred to me that wizarding records weren't the only history of magic.

"Muggles never had magic, but up until the recent age they have always respected it- whether in love or fear- and it was almost as much a part of their lives as ours. Though what we know as magic and what they thought of as magic are very different things. But in some things they got it right. And so, with scarcely less difficulty than I'd had at school, I managed to piece together an idea of how the magic worked.

"Because dream speaking can only be performed by a witch or wizard with intrinsic magical ability- though muggles can be the recipient of it- muggles down the ages had written down how they understood it to be done in theory- because not everyone could do it and so it was regarded as an art that needed to be taught.

"Of course, a lot of it was very foolish nonsense by people who understood nothing at all of magic, but some of it seemed genuine- and fit with what I had managed to glean from magical accounts. Thus I deduced that one could contact another's mind and relay a comprehensive message by using gates- as they were once understood to be- in the fabric of our reality. Things like dawn and dusk and midnight- which is the moment one day switches to then next- the solstices and the first day of each season, the full and new moons, water in earthen bowls and fire burning wood. Windows and doors, mirrors and moments of great change like birth and death. Anything that unites two states.

"You have to look at a gate, at the time of a gate or being inside one and picture the one you aim to make contact with. Concentrate hard on their image and recite to yourself over and over in your head what you want to tell them. And you have to do it over and over. Tonight's the first time in nearly two months I won't have to set my alarm." She laughed.

"Other than that- I don't know how it works. I haven't experimented. Maybe it's possible to do it without the gates- maybe that's just superstition- or to increase the effectiveness with herbs. Maybe it gets easier or minds which are familiar with communicating can do it faster. I wonder if it's possible to communicate across time?" Her face had taken on that distracted, concentrating look he remembered from Hogwarts.

He had been listening in awe- amazed yet again at how Hermione's mind worked, now though, he decided to interrupt to ask a question. "Hermione- how come no-one else knows about this? I was raised a wizard and I've never heard of it. Why would an entire race just forget?"

She looked at him again. "Well, the only reason I can deduce is that it's so inefficient. Modern wizards are like modern muggles- we like instant gratification and things to work straight away. Why bother spending two months trying to contact someone if you can just owl them in a day or two, or better yet use floo powder or apparition to talk straight to them? Obviously this magic is very old. Probably it was in common use long before most of those methods were."

"Good point." Which raised another question. "But Hermione why did you contact me this way? Why not just owl me or floo or apparate?"

And her answer taught him all he needed to know about how she'd been living for the last six years. "Because he could trace that. The ministry of each country can monitor who uses the floo network- and Voldemort's bound to have spies in France- and the British ministry itself- Voldemort's own government- can monitor the apparition of British witches- that's how they catch underage law breakers. As for an owl- discounting interception- I'd have had to go into a wizarding centre to do that- same goes for flooing now I think about it- and anyone could have seen me there."

"Hermione, have you been so afraid of being traced these last six years that you haven't apparated or even seen any other wizarding folk?"

She nodded miserably. "How could I know if we were safe? He might have still been looking for us. What about April?"

"And what about the French ministry tracing your magic- or April's- you said yourself that Voldemort might have a spy there."

"I thought of that. This apartment belongs to a wizard who used to live here. He rents it to me- without realising I'm a witch- and lives elsewhere. The ministry think it's him casting the spells as they have this property down as belonging to him. They don't investigate, he doesn't find out I'm regularly using magic and April and I are safe."

Neville was impressed by the complexity of the plan. How had she ever thought of that? "Wow, I'm impressed."

"Yes it's not bad is it?" She smiled, pleased with herself.

"So all that explained then, why did you contact me?" The question he'd been dying to ask all day but was to polite to leap straight into without a lead up.

"Look at that." She pointed behind the sofa. He craned his neck to see what she meant. There was a bookcase there that he'd noticed earlier. At the time he'd wondered why Hermione, who was so organised usually, would allow the books on the top and bottom shelves to be crammed into such a disorderly pile, while two shelves were taken up with picture frames. He stood up and moved behind the couch for a closer look.

Every picture was of April- usually with Hermione sharing the frame with her. April and Hermione in front of the Eiffel tower, April in her school uniform, April and Hermione eating ice-creams in a café, April and Hermione having a snow fight in the park. And they were all muggle photos.

That was his first question. "Why are they muggle photos?"

Hermione looked briefly annoyed, though not at him. "I couldn't get wizard photos- that would have meant getting a wizard to develop them."

"Oh. OK then. Why so many up here?" There were at least two hundred, all framed, blocking one another from sight. The ones closest to the back were stacked up like cards against the wall.

"Because I wanted to make sure we had plenty- just in case." Just in case? What did she mean by that?

She read his expression. "I don't have any of Ron. Or Harry. Or Ginny. Certainly none of us together." Misery caused her face to crumple and moisture appeared in her eyes. "That's why I asked you to come- I was really hoping you- that you might have some. For April you see. She's never seen her parents."

Never seen her parents? There was an irony in that when he thought about it. He knew Harry never saw a picture of his parents either as a child. What would it be like never to know even what your parents looked like? Neville couldn't imagine it. But he fancied Hermione suffered more than April. All these years she'd had no picture of Ron to keep him alive for her? What agony that must have been. And to know she'd had only to contact her old friends to get one. Yet she'd waited until now- until April needed them- to ask.

"Why did you wait so long Hermione? Of course I have pictures I can give you." One or two. Yet he fancied he had an idea of where he might get more then Hermione could wish for.

"Oh thankyou Neville!" she said, openly sobbing now. "You don't know what it will mean to her!"

Perhaps not, he thought. But I can guess what it means to you. And he gathered her up in his arms and held her until the crying stopped.

Hermione felt better after she had cried for some time into Neville's shoulder. It was nice not to be alone with your grief- forced to hide it from a six-year-old child. Which she didn't always successfully manage. She felt embarrassed, yet relieved at the same time. Neville was a good friend, he wouldn't mind if she wet his collar with hysterics.

She hiccoughed slightly as she started to speak. "I'm- _hick_- sorry Neville. I'm all emotional this afternoon."

"That's alright Hermione. No harm done." His face was sympathetic, until he happened to glance down at his watch. "Oh! Oh dear- it's got so late! I'm awfully sorry Hermione, but I really do have to go. I have a meeting this afternoon. In about twenty minutes in fact."

Momentarily she felt her heart sink- this was so abrupt, perhaps she had discomforted him? "That's fine Neville," she said, managing to sound perky enough, "I'm just pleased you could stay this long. And, no doubt we'll see you soon anyway." He would be bringing her those photos. And she had to tell him her decision.

"Thanks Hermione." He said, sounding somewhat harried. "Listen, I'm awfully sorry to be rushing off like this. I feel terrible- it's just a really important meeting."

"Really Neville, it's no problem." She stood to say goodbye. "It'll give me some time to think about your offer." She stepped back to give him room to apparate.

"Yes, please do." He said, giving her a final hug and then drawing out his wand. "And Hermione? Please take into account that this is for April too. So that she can grow up free of threat and fear. So that she can go to Hogwarts when she's old enough." That was a point she hadn't yet thought of- "And it's for Ron and Harry too Hermione. They would have wanted you to do this. It's what you all dreamed of isn't it? Help me honour their memories. They gave their lives for this."


	6. Chapter 6

**VI**

**Oh damn. Just realised I forgot to give credit where it's due in the last five chapies. Well, April and Alex are mine. Everyone else belongs to J.K- I just slipped them an aging potion. **

Two days later April came home from school in tears. Things were getting worse with the other children- three of them had ganged up on her that day, Dillon and his older brother and a mate. They had cornered her waiting for the bus and yelled insults into her face. Cruel things designed to wound a child- things like "you freak- no one likes you- why don't you just disappear?" and "you're so weird. And you look like a carrot" (Hermione would have had trouble not laughing at that one if she hadn't been so furious). It seemed their favourite taunts involved her lack of parents; April didn't have any because she was ugly or stupid, her father didn't love her mother or her, she was an orphan because her parents were too stupid to live- no wonder she was so stupid. Despite April's true knowledge of her parents, she was too young to disregard such comments made repeatedly.

It seemed the boys hadn't come away from the incident unscathed either. Briefly Dillon and his brother had sported grotesquely swollen noses and the other boy had grown abnormally long eyebrows. Hermione was confident that these alterations to their appearances wouldn't last long- April's magic was too raw and unschooled to have any durability- but the boys wouldn't be discouraged. In fact, Hermione guessed that the incident would only encourage their vindictive hatred.

She was largely unsuccessful at comforting April, and eventually, the girl cried herself into a state of illness, so Hermione simply put her to bed for the evening. April woke up very hungry the next morning- having missed dinner- but very reluctant to go to school. Hermione escorted her down to the bus and ensured she got on it. When she heard that afternoon that another incident- minor but still significant to April- had occurred and left April afraid to go to school (Hermione didn't blame her- who knew when this would turn into physical bullying also?) Hermione rang the teacher.

Miss Guy was young but not soft. She seemed to have come out of her training with the view that all children were alike and could all be managed by the same method- give them no leniency and they would expect none. Hermione (who had been a somewhat solitary child herself, inclined towards having few friends who were very intimate and shared a lot in common with her, and had struggled when forced to work with those outside this small circle) disliked her strongly.

She was not pleasantly surprised. Miss Guy made the right noises and said she was aware some incidents were occurring and that she was monitoring the situation. Hermione asked if she knew about the incident at the bus stop. When Miss Guy said she did not, Hermione then asked her to tell her what she did know. Apparently, the teacher had never been present at the times April was suffering, but she understood that Dillon and a couple of other members of the class, were being somewhat unkind toward April in their behaviour- here she implied that this was due to April being a difficult child who obviously made no effort to get on with the other children- and making comments that might be upsetting to the girl. She had spoken to the perpetrators on several occasions and was confident that they were aware their behaviour was wrong and had to stop. Hermione told her some of the things April had reported to be said and recounted the incident involving the older children. Miss Guy said she would look into it. Hermione told her that the situation warranted more than "looking into"- it had happened, April had been deeply upset, and she wanted the boys punished.

At this point Miss Guy made a fatal mistake. She began speaking down to Hermione. Gently she implied that Hermione was an overanxious caregiver who was not aware of the true situation and was basing her assumptions on the unstable and emotional word of a six year old. Mid way through her careful analysis, Hermione broke in to tell her very shortly and very clearly exactly what she thought of her teaching style and that she was withdrawing April- and the considerable amount she budgeted to have her enrolled there each term- from the school. As a final note, she told Miss Guy that she was four years her senior and resented being talked down to by a woman of no obvious intelligence or skill who reminded her strongly of a very foolish teenager she had once been at school with called Lavender Brown. Were they by any chance related and did insensitivity run in the family? Then she hung up.

Hermione later regretted her hasty words. It was that temper of hers. People had thought Ron was the one who was easily aroused to temper, but Hermione had always been able to match him. It had certainly lent spice to their relationship- a more peaceable woman would have become dispirited by the constant arguments, but she had found them invigorating. And their reunions certainly hadn't discouraged them.

She remembered one particular incident when Ron had interrupted what she was telling him- knowing full well he wasn't really listening and looking forward to calling him on it- to read a small article about the Chuddly Cannons to Harry from The Prophet. Hermione had accused him of being a sport obsessed blind man whose brain resided in his arse, which was the part of his anatomy he used to sit a broom. The argument had blown up from there. They hadn't spoken for two days. Finally Harry, who was getting sick of acting as the middle man and relaying messages between two supposedly mature adults, had called them both on it. Neither was ready to give in, but that night Hermione had gone into Ron's room to apologise for starting the argument. Ron had invited her to come for a moonlit broom ride. Trusting that he wouldn't take advantage of her fears, even if he was still angry, she had accepted. He'd flown them low and slowly across the silvered landscape, with her wrapped tightly in his arms. They'd ended up landing on a wooded hillock and making love under the stars.

She blinked back tears as she recalled her emotions afterward as they lay panting on the cool grass, with the drew rising to cover them and the stars wheeling in the endless heavens above. She had been so blissfully happy. Her body relaxed and pliant, warm, with his body to defeat the night's chill, her senses caught up in him.

Now, in the practical daylight, wasn't the time for such thoughts, she had other problems to deal with: where was she going to send April to school?

There were plenty of good schools in Paris, both public and private, but they were all French. Hermione knew even as she thought this that she wasn't so concerned with the language taught- after all, at this rate April would be living her life in Europe- but that the same thing would happen. The children would take exception to April because of her magic and no adult logic would dissuade them. It was human nature to fear and consequently hate what was different, and children were the most primitive of men, unpolished by society, incapable of hiding their emotions. Hermione was afraid that wherever she sent April, she would have to pull her out again soon, and for a child of her age, this constant displacement and insecurity of habit was unhealthy.

Whatever decision she made would have to be a good one.

When Neville called again, he bypassed the need to visit her muggle workplace and simply apparated into her living room. April was sitting at the table writing a story for Hermione- who still hadn't decided what to do about her and was trying to keep her mind occupied with constructive activities while she fended off the inquiries from her workplace about her absence by claiming to have contracted tonsillitis. When Neville appeared so suddenly in her domain the six-year-old yelped, leaped from her chair and fled in the direction of the kitchen, where Hermione was making lunch. She was not so much spooked by his unusual method of entry- which her young mind could easily encompass, but by his large masculine presence in this house of physically diminutive females. It jarred her world slightly and unpleasantly.

When April ran through the kitchen door and smacked into her legs, nearly causing her to drop the plates she was carrying as she rocked back under the assault, Hermione began to scold her for running inside. "April, how many-"

But her lecture was cut short as Neville's cheery greeting echoed through the flat. "Hello? Hermione?" April paused in the act of standing from her prone position on the floor to look up at Hermione in question. Would she still get in trouble? But Auntie Hermione was smiling.

"No wonder you came belting in here. Did he just appear?" At April's nod, Hermione stepped around her and continued into the living room. Neville was standing beside the coffee table, dressed once more in a black suit, accompanied this time by a sky blue shirt. He had a folder in one hand, which he stretched out as he opened his arms for a hug. Hermione placed the food down and immediately obliged, then turned to introduce him to the small girl who had followed her through from the kitchen and was now standing behind her with a somewhat shy expression on her face- looking remarkably like Ginny the first time Neville had seen her.

"Hi Neville. How are you? Let me reintroduce you to someone very special- this is April Potter. April, this is Neville, an old friend of mine. He was at school with your parents and I. You won't remember him, but he knew you when you were just a wee baby." Neville squatted down and offered April his hand. Reassured about his presence because Auntie Hermione had given him a hug and called him a friend, April stepped forward and shook with him.

"Hi." She overcame her shyness enough to speak. "Did you really know mummy an' daddy?"

Neville's smile charmed her. "I certainly did. Your dad was a great mate of mine. And your mum was very pretty- just like you!" He winked. Immediately April was under his spell.

"Me an' Auntie Hermione were havin' lunch. D'you want some?"

"My, what wonderful manners you have." He glanced up at Hermione, "Bet your aunt taught you those huh?"

She smiled. "April's certainly turned out to be quite the charmer when she wants to be. Not unlike someone not too far from me."

He grinned at her. "Why thank you Hermione."

April glanced between the two and tugged at Neville's hand, which she had retained. "Lunch." she said, getting back to what to her was the important and comprehensible issue at hand.

Neville glanced at Hermione, "Reminds me of someone we used to know.'

Her answering smile was tinged with sadness, "Yes, she does rather."


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

**Once again all due credit to J.K.- thanks for giving us the characters to play with. I promise to look after them. Well… eventually.**

**Just a quick note: I've sent emails to everyone who's reviewed so far, so if you didn't get one my apologies- there must be something up with the delivery process. I'll say thank you here instead, your reviews mean a lot to me; positive feedback is wonderfully encouraging and gives me the impetus to sit down a write when I'm feeling lazy. Molto Grazie.**

The picture album had belonged to Dennis Creevey. He'd inherited it from Colin upon his brother's death. Neville hadn't been sure if Dennis actually had the pictures, but he'd been sure he probably knew where they were. Photography had been Colin's passion after all- at least as important to him as Harry was.

In the end it had been even easier than he'd expected. Dennis had visited the DA headquarters in Berlin the day after Neville had first visited Hermione and after a brief word on the subject had obligingly summoned the correct folder from his flat in Rome. He kept it there along with most of Colin's work neatly organised and filed- just as it had come to him. Neville could only suppose that artistic passion did strange things to a man- Colin had never struck him as being particularly orderly or neat.

When he opened the folder Neville had known he'd struck gold. There were dozens of photos inside and all of them were of Harry and his friends. He had closed the folder and looked at the cover- it had a handwritten label; _Harry and Ginny_.

"My brother kept these photos separate from those of his friends and himself. Even after he left school, he still hung onto them. They weren't his most artistic work so the publishers had no interest in them, but they meant something to him. I've taken a couple out- just for old time's sake- but I think Colin would agree that it's right for Hermione and Harry and Ginny's kid to have them."

Neville had thanked Dennis profusely, causing him mild embarrassment, but Neville had known he was secretly pleased. Colin had come in for some ribbing at school for his hero worship of Harry and obsession with photography, if people could now appreciate what he had created, derive pleasure from the photographs, then Colin would be vindicated.

Neville only hoped Hermione did derive some satisfaction from the photos. He knew it would be painful for her to see them, he just hoped the pleasure outweighed the pain.

Hermione hadn't been able to eat more than a few mouthfuls. She knew it was ridiculous to be so worked up over a photo album- whatever enjoyment or regret she gained from it could not possibly match the joy and sorrow she had already experienced in her life.

But to see them again, even if only in a photo- how could she remain calm? She wished Neville had offered to let them look as soon as he arrived, but she was ridiculously afraid at the same time of the pain it might cause. She lacked the resolution to suggest herself that they look.

In the end, April took the decision out of both their hands. She had finished her dessert, which was an orange- Hermione was strict on healthy foods- and was looking around for something to do to avoid helping to clear the table. Her eyes landed on the folder which was lying between Neville and herself. Reaching out sticky young hands she pulled it towards herself and knelt up in her seat to open it. Before her wondering eyes was spread a large page of photos. But not ordinary photos like the ones of her on the bookcase- the people in these photos moved. They smiled up at her and laughed at her expression. And in all the pictures on this page, foremost in the scene were two faces- an older boy with big green eyes, dark hair and glasses, and a girl with brown eyes and long red hair.

Hermione felt her whole chest constrict as though the air had been stilled in her lungs with a spell. She stared down at the faces looking up from the pictures. Even seen from the strange angle that the book was facing her at, those faces were heart breaking, mind ensnaring in their familiarity. All the details that she had forgotten over the years, the little touches that only a friend would know came rushing back to her: The specks of gold that lodged in Harry's eyes; the exact length of Ginny's hair; the freckle on the side of her nose that looked like a dark nose stud; the angle a certain curl of Harry's fringe always stuck up at; the way Ginny's robe always slipped lower on her left shoulder because she had stretched it with the weight of her satchel. Hermione had forgotten these things- what cause had she to remember other than the desire of her heart? And no-one can ever remember all the details that make up a person- that made them who you knew. That is the true tragedy of death: That even once we believe we have lost a person for good, we go on loosing them, piece by piece without even realising it, until we are left with an impression so faint it can barely shadow our conscious thoughts.

Not so many years had passed that Hermione had found herself at this point, but to learn now all that she had forgotten in just the short time that had gone by caused a pain in her stomach and chest that felt almost as though she was loosing them again. Or so it seemed to her- the mind is a kind thing at times, it will dull the worst of our experiences, so Hermione had no true memory of that earlier pain.

Regaining the ability to breathe and think and function took her a few moments so that she barely registered April's queries. With shaking hands she reached out and turned the page, looking, searching, for him.

There they were. Together. Holding hands and smiling. Standing with Harry and Ginny at the latter's graduation. All four of them wearing formal robes and bathed in the joy of the occasion, even Harry looking far less worried than usual.

Hermione lifted a hand to her mouth as though to muffle a moan that never found voice. He looked so young- somehow her memory had made him age with her. So young. Still a boy in many ways. Still basically innocent- it had not been until that final hour that he had learned the true depth of darkness and depravity that could hide itself within the human soul.

She couldn't tear her gaze away. She blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay- refusing to surrender the slightest details to their blurring effect. Unconsciously she had reached forward to touch him. To caress his face, but the glossy surface of the print repelled her and she allowed her hand to drop away, meaningless and useless.

Neville looked not at the prints, but at Hermione. He too ignored April's questions- the girl could wait. He watched as Hermione's face suddenly grew pale. As she appeared to stop breathing momentarily before sucking in a painful, dragging gasp. He watched as her hand rose to cover her parted lips while her eyes remained riveted, filling with moisture that reappeared as quickly as she blinked it away. He caught the hand that she allowed to fall, its motion aborted. Grasped it tightly, almost painfully, willing her strength.

Inside Hermione chaos reigned. Part of her was desperately absorbing that face, noting all the things she had forgotten, trying to make him real again in her mind. Another part was trying to force her to remember that same face the last time she had seen it. Lifeless and bloody, ruined and painful. A smaller part was attempting to shut all processes down completely, to empty her of thought and emotion. But it was the final part that won out in the end, though it had begun as the weakest. Somehow, she was able to suppress the furore that roared in her mind and restore a measure of calm to her upper layer of consciousness. She was able to squeeze Neville's hand in return. To reach out and lift April onto her lap and wrap her arms around the child, though there was an element of desperation it that act- seeking comfort. Somehow she was able to remember where she was and where she was not and what was important now.

Looking at April and then at the page in front of her, and pointing at the figures as she spoke, she said "This is me, see? And this is your uncle Ron, your mum's youngest brother. This boy here? That's Harry, April- your dad. And next to him is your mum, Ginny. Look at them. They're smiling at us."


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

**Characters aren't mine. Weak attempt at plot is. Boring dialogue is. Emotions and humour belong to everyone. The ability to express them eloquently belongs to a lucky few- I am not one of them.**

**Just a quick sales pitch here: Bry has finally posted and she rocks so go check out her stuff under my favourites- thatappleyweirdgirl. Please come back to me after- I know I'm inferior but I do try.**

**Also, I wrote a short fluffy/angsty monstrosity last week. You may enjoy it for a laugh. At me, not with me. **

Travelling in the back of the taxi, Hermione finally found time to sit and simply think over the last few days. Things had happened so quickly she had hardly paused for a proper breath, let alone proper thought. At night she had fallen immediately into deep slumber, before dreams made her restless.

She, April and Neville had continued to look through the photo album that afternoon. They had found pictures of Harry, Ron, Hermione and their friends that dated from their second year, right through until about the time Colin died, though the number taken after they left school was considerably less.

But the most surprising thing was that from about their sixth year on, there were just as many, if not more pictures, of Ginny and her friends. After finding one of Ginny that was a close up of the back of her shoulders and neck, with her face caught in profile, just as she turned, the light illuminating and softening her features, Hermione had been struck by a strange thought. Maybe Colin had developed a crush on Ginny? When Hermione had mentioned this idea to Neville he had agreed that the same thought had occurred to him. It was not impossible; Ginny had been an attractive girl, many young men at Hogwarts had fancied her, why not Colin? But he had been so devoted to Harry, how could he have feelings for Harry's girlfriend?

Hermione had realised, much to her chagrin, that they had come to view Colin as being a fixture, so used to seeing him in one light that he had lost his humanity in their eyes- they no longer thought of him as a being who had emotions and thoughts, who could grow and change, but who remained in a certain mould always in their minds.

Colin had been more than just the obsessive kid who had worshiped Harry Potter and liked using a camera, he had been a young man capable of developing feelings for a girl, albeit, Harry Potter's girl. Although that, she also realised, may have initially have played a role in causing him to admire Ginny.

Hermione had been in tears twice more before they had finished looking though the album. This had unsettled April somewhat, but she was used to Hermione occasionally crying for no comprehensible reason- for no six year old can truly understand the effects of grief- though Hermione had told her it was because she missed her friends. Neville had been wonderful, distracting the girl and telling her stories of his years at school with Harry and Ginny, though he must have been feeling grief also.

When they finished, Hermione had told April to take the album through to her room and look at it there- the girl was still interested in the novelty of moving pictures, though she thought it was like television. Surprisingly, despite the fact that she was quite taken with Neville, the girl had gone without fuss, Hermione could only surmise that it was due to her own upset state and April was trying to spare her more difficulty.

Then she and Neville had properly talked things through. She had told him about the difficulties that she had experienced with April's schooling and he told her in depth about the work he did. Eventually, when it became clear that Hermione was probably going to accept his offer, they talked arrangements. Hermione had been adamant that she would only be involved if April's existence remained a secret- hence their travelling by car rather than more traditional wizarding methods.

He had offered to let them stay with him in Berlin, at least for a while, and Hermione had accepted that also. It would make it easier to look after April while she arranged things. If she came out in the open while still living in her old flat, April would soon be discovered by their enemies, and this way Neville could help by looking after her while Hermione was out without having to stay away from the comfort of his own home. Hermione hadn't resigned from her job- now that she need not fear to apparate, there was no difference between working up the road and working in a different country- but she had applied for a part-time position which would leave her with more time for the DA. Neville had insisted he help out with money, since she would be working for the organisation. Hermione had been forced to agree that such an arrangement was fair, she just hoped her work would be worth it.

She had contacted her landlord and told him that she was moving and, having already paid him for that month, given him three weeks notice, though she would be gone long before the three weeks was up. She had spent the last two days packing, marvelling at times at how much _stuff_ a woman and child could collect over five years, and cleaning the apartment. Then, she and April, had taken a cab to the airport and got on a flight to Berlin.

April had been hugely exited- she had never been on an airplane before. For Hermione it had brought back memories of the holidays she had taken with her parents as a child and teenager, and the memories, while happy ones, had made her somewhat melancholy for the duration of that stage of their journey.

At the Berlin airport, they had managed to find a taxi which was now taking them to Neville's house on the outskirts of the city. The driver was a friendly muggle whose English and French were almost as abysmal as Hermione's German, and their few attempts at conversation had provided much amusement for both parties.

So now, with April asleep against her, Hermione had nothing to do but stare out the window at the city they travelled through and brood.

Her main concern was whether she had done the right thing by April. Even though Neville had promised her that the child would be safe and they had discussed ways of keeping her existence a secret even when Hermione revealed herself, she was plagued by the fear that somehow it would all be futile. Who truly knew what resources the other side had? April was so young, helpless, reliant on Hermione for protection and care, had she placed her irrevocably in harm's way. And if not, how long until she did?

Hermione's concerns were without logic. Although April was not her child, in this respect she was like any mother- she feared for her instinctively, regardless of the true level of danger. And like any mother, she held herself entirely responsible for the child's safety and happiness.

Also Hermione was worrying about how much value she would actually be to the DA. She acknowledged that she had shown great potential as a girl and young woman, both magically and intellectually. But only she knew how many hours she had spent practicing and studying for her success. And in the last years? She had used only minor magic, had no access to magical scripts or even learned how to live in adult wizarding society. Her job had left her with time and energy for April, and even a few research projects into muggle society and history, but it had not challenged her or extended her abilities. Who knew how much she had lost? And she knew nothing of complex negotiations and international diplomacy. What could she truly offer?

Underlying these concerns, as it shadowed most of her thoughts and emotions, was the grief that never left her.

The taxi arrived at a pair of large metal gates. Beyond them stretched a long drive that disappeared around the hill. Hermione wondered how they would get in- no-one at the house could see them from here.

The driver had noticed what she had missed: He wound down his window and pressed the button on a small intercom attached to one of the gate mounts. He spoke rapidly into it in German- Hermione was only able to make out her own name. There was a brief silence before cultured accents could be heard through the crackle of static. The driver wound up his window, and as the gates swung open, he put the car into gear and accelerated forward. Hermione only then noticed the symbol that was wrought in the iron of the gates: It was pair of crossed wands over a crooked looking wizard's hat. Hermione immediately realised that the hat must be Dumbledore's- she had never actually seen another wizard wear one.

The road wound only a short way around the curve of the hill before an imposing edifice came into view. The only way Hermione could describe it to herself was to say that it looked like a cross between a ruined castle and a very modern muggle museum: Part of the walls were layered stone, weather beaten and looking very much as though they had survived several centuries. The stone extended down into the wall that bordered the gardens around the turning circle. The rest of the walls and- presumably- the roof, were constructed of metal and glass, with huge windows that extended most of the width and height of the building, giving glimpses of the rooms inside where the sunlight fell on polished wooden floors and designer furniture. She had never seen anything like it, who in their right mind would combine those styles of construction? Yet it worked, somehow. The balance was right, the grey of the stones blended well with the colour of the metal, while the contrast in their texture was pleasing to the eye.

Still marvelling, Hermione gently leaned April- who was deeply asleep after all the excitement of the journey- back against the seat and undid her safety belt. She climbed from the car and was moving toward the boot- where they had a small amount of luggage- when she heard herself hailed. She turned to see Neville walking toward her from the house.

"You made it!" he exclaimed, smiling widely. "Where's April?"

Hermione gestured toward the back seat. "Sleeping. All tuckered out from her first plane flight."

"Of course. I still remember my first broom flight…" His look turned introverted for a moment.

The taxi driver had arrived to help Hermione lift the bags out, and as they piled them on the driveway she heard Neville open the taxi door and murmur under his breath. As she straightened up, he did also, holding a sleeping April against his shoulder. "I think it would be best if she stayed asleep for the moment… there's someone I need to introduce you to." He handed a few notes to the driver and waited as the man got in the car and drove away. "Come into the house."

Hermione bent to pick up a couple of bags. "Leave them," he said, "my house elf will deal with them." He turned and walked up the steps. Hermione followed. As she got closer to the doorway she saw someone standing just inside it.

Neville looked nervous. "Hermione, someone else stays here with us. One of the DA's oldest and most loyal members. May I reintroduce you to-" The man stepped through the doorway. Hermione had an impression of a very fine robe before her eyes moved to his face and a feeling of fear and anger welled up in her stomach as she recognised- "Draco Malfoy."


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**

**I don't want to be J.K. I'm not even jealous of her. Because I get to write hot Draco. Not pathetic bully Draco. **

**Having said that, Draco's hers, as are Hermione, Neville and the others.**

**If any of you watch Rock Star INXS, I imagine Draco looking somewhat like Marty. _And it'll be him and me, up in a tree_. Yeah, right. **

**Once again, go read Bry, aka "thatappleyweirdgirl", if you haven't already. I'll try to get her to post again soon.**

"Granger," Draco said, "how good to see you again."

Hermione glared at him, ready to leap at him. She was so angry- he was one of _them_!- she couldn't form words. Her chest felt as though it had steel bars clamped tightly around it and her brain was washed with an immediacy she hadn't felt in years. Her hands flexed as the tiny part of her mind that remained rational fought to stop the rest of her from strangling him.

Neville cleared his throat. Hermione's furious countenance swung to him. He felt the small nervous feeling that had been slowly growing in his belly all day suddenly expand through the rest of his body. Hermione hadn't spoken, but her expression left him in no doubt as to her thoughts and emotions. Almost unconsciously- for what sane man would do so?- he interposed his body between her and Draco. "Perhaps we should all move inside?"

Uncontrollable hot anger can only be sustained so long. They'd been standing on the doorstep for almost a full minute with no one moving or provoking her and the hormones that had flooded Hermione's brain had begun to subside slightly as her anger chilled- not decreasing, just becoming more controlled. The sight of April still asleep in Neville's arms, rather than further enraging her- as he might have expected- caused a division in Hermione's thoughts that distracted her briefly, assisting the cause of her rational self. Now a more moderate anger at Neville took over. How dare he bring April near Malfoy?

Neville took her continued silence for capitulation. Nudging Draco ahead of him, he moved further into the house. Draco was moving backward, still looking at Hermione, but now for the first time he noticed the child in Neville's arms.

"That's a Weasley." He said. A statement, not a question.

"Actually," Hermione replied coldly, "she's a Potter."

Her ability to speak had returned with her ability to reason. She wouldn't murder Malfoy in hot blood on Neville's doorstep, but, by God, someone had better have a damn good explanation. She hadn't yet ruled out a cold blooded murder. And she had several good ideas- how could she have forgotten her wand in her anger? But then, she supposed, where was the satisfaction in killing him with a wand? She would be divorced from the action- like using a gun. No, if Malfoy had killed Ron or Harry he would die by her hands- choked like the dog he was. They deserved nothing less. She deserved nothing less.

Having satisfied herself with this vow, she was able to look around the room she stood in. It was a large, uncluttered space, not quite a lounge, not quite an office. There was a huge stone fireplace set in an internal wall and several very trendy couches and chairs in a red suede material – which didn't look particularly comfortable- grouped around it. The remaining spaces on the inner walls were lined with bookcases, most filled with files and boxes. The floor was polished wood and the large windows stretched the full height of the room on two sides, giving a view of the driveway and gardens. The roof was composed of a combination of wood and metal struts, with very functional lights set into it. There was no decoration of any sort, or any indication of an intention of comfort, but it was very fashionable.

Neville lay April down on one of the couches. Hermione immediately moved toward her, catching her unconscious form as she started to slide off the slick material. She tucked her back up again and perched on the edge beside her, her hands moving to smooth back the strands of red hair that had come loose from April's ponytail and pull her jersey tighter about her.

She looked at the men in front of her then. Draco, perhaps not realising how serious her anger was, had taken a seat mere feet from her while Neville remained standing with his hands gripping the back of another chair. Sensing that Hermione was focussed on them once again, he cleared his throat and began: "I realise that this is somewhat of a surprise to you Hermione-" her eyes narrowed, and he swiftly rephrased "- that is, rather, an unpleasant shock,-" now he glanced apologetically at Draco, but the young man's attention was focussed on the woman across from him, "- I, uh, had intended to tell you at a latter date, but" he rushed on as she opened her mouth to interrupt, "Draco came back from England much sooner than expected. Months sooner in fact." Her expression remained tight, but she nodded to continue, which he did with relief. "You see, Draco only stays here part of the time. He's based in England- where he has his own residence obviously- but his work- both officially and for us- often brings him to the continent and while he's here it's convenient for him to stay here at headquarters. There are advantages to living here while working for the DA- the same advantages that you're making use of. And beside that," he paused, then decided to say it- she'd have to deal with it sooner or latter- " Draco and I are good friends and we both live alone most of the time, so it does us both good to have the company."

Hermione had caught what Neville hadn't said. "You're saying that because Malfoy" he voice as it pronounced his name held echoes of ancient taunts overlaid by suppressed anger, "wasn't due back for the next few months, you had no intention of telling me that he lived with you" The final three words were pitched slightly higher and louder than the others. "Despite the fact that you convinced me to move not only myself, but April, in with you?"

Neville cringed inwardly. Put like that it did sound a bit, uh… tactless. But he really had intended to tell her… It had just seemed easier to wait until she was settled. He had been so sure that her moving in with April would be a good thing. Now he began to wonder about the brilliance of that scheme… genius and madness were awfully close…

To the surprise of all, Draco decided that he could defuse the situation. Sliding forward on his chair, his movement broke the gaze that Hermione and Neville had been sharing, bringing one angry pair of eyes, and one anxious, to rest on him.

"Granger-" Hermione's brow lowered still further. Undeterred, he began again; "Really Granger, it's not so bad. I'm only here at night, and I'll be staying for a mere week this visit. If you can put up with me for that long I'm sure that you and Neville can work something out before I visit again. You never know, it might actually be good to get reacquainted- I'm not the little brat I was at Hogwarts. You might like me this time round."

Neville almost groaned aloud. Why couldn't the prat keep his mouth shut?

Hermione stared at Malfoy. Anger mixed with an unintentional admiration for him. Not many people could speak so calmly and openly in the face of such blatant dislike. She wasn't sure how to respond. What should she say to such an open proposal of friendship from someone she hated- Malfoy- whom she remembered as hating her so much? Uncertainty increased her anger. How dare he make her feel guilty? She had every right to hate him! She continued to glare, despite the urgings of her better self.

Malfoy's calm façade faltered and she felt a stab of triumph in her stomach. Then her gaze swung briefly to Neville- he looked unhappy. Unsure suddenly- this was Neville's home, she shouldn't cause trouble, but he should have told her! She'd never have come if she'd known!- she decided to simply put off any further confrontation.

Making her voice icy, she stood and spoke. "April and I are going to bed- it's been a long day. We'll talk tomorrow." She bent over April and slid a hand under her, but before she could do more, Neville was there, offering to carry the child. Deciding that it would be sulky to refuse his help- but tempted to do so anyway- Hermione stepped back to give him room.

He stood, with April in his arms and led the way toward the door that that they had entered through. Draco stood also. "Granger-" he tried once more. "it really is good to see you again… I hope you sleep well." She glared at him and stalked out, not deigning to answer.

Hermione, for all her expressions of exhaustion, was unable to fall easily into sleep.

Her room was luxurious enough, opulent even, but all the comfort lavished on her body could do little to ease the uncertainties of her mind. Neville obviously trusted Malfoy, deeply, if they were close friends that lived together and he worked for Neville's DA, but how could he? After all those years of mutual hatred at Hogwarts? After Malfoy had tried to kill Dumbledore- had helped the Death Eater's to get into the school! Hermione could think of no way to exonerate him from those acts. He had done so many awful things to them all, what could he ever have done to repay the debt?

But then, the dislike hadn't been one sided. Harry and Ron had hated Malfoy as strongly as he had hated them. They had used any opportunity to embarrass him or hurt him, as he had done to them. Even she hadn't been innocent, punching him and taunting him, deliberately setting out to beat him in class because she knew it upset his parents- her brain one weapon with which she could always defeat him. And she had taunted his friends- Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle- as much as he had taunted her friends.

Yes, Malfoy had picked on younger students, but she guessed that belonging to Slytherin House was much like belonging to a gang- there was undoubtedly a great amount of peer pressure on Draco and his friends, from each other and the older students, to enact such displays.

They had been children really, imitating the behaviour of their parents, not comprehending the cost of their acts, self absorbed with their vision limited entirely to their own emotions, no more evil in their petty acts than the boys who gave April a hard time- who would undoubtedly grow into normal and even decent men.

They had all been children, and Hermione, with her rational adult mind, could look back on their actions of the time and see them in this light.

But what had come later… Regardless of the technicalities, Draco had been a Death Eater. He'd planned Dumbledore's murder, harmed innocents in the pursuit of it, and supported the people who had eventually fulfilled the deed. How could he ever be forgiven?

Draco lay sleepless upon his bed, as he had so many nights over the past nine years.

Guilt plagued him.

No matter how many times he had repented his foolishness, regardless of what his latter acts had been, irrespective of the reasoning and insight he applied to it- the guilt remained.

Those few short months, how long would he suffer for them? Would he spend the rest of his life trying, without success, to wipe away the stain they had left on his soul? And would people like Hermione Granger always help him to feel that way?

Did he deserve to feel differently?- Perhaps this was his true penance.

Oh he understood her. As soon as he'd apparated in that morning, Neville had begun to panic- though Neville preferred to phrase it "become concerned", Draco knew it was panic. He'd sat Draco down immediately to tell him that they would be having two more people live with them, which hadn't concerned him at all. Even learning it was Granger had caused only a mild worry that she would still resent him from their history- it caused him far more trepidation to learn that his other new lodger was a six year old child. A girl.

Then Neville had told him exactly why he was so "concerned".

Draco knew about Harry Potter and Ron Weasley of course. He even remembered hearing somewhat about Weasley's sister's death at the time- the press had lapped it up. It hadn't been common knowledge that Weasley and Granger were lovers.

It had been obvious that there was chemistry between them, as well as their deep friendship, during the Hogwarts years, but they had not begun a romantic relationship until after they left school. Even then, it had not been acknowledged outside of their close friends and family, because by that point the press were out for any gossip about Harry Potter and his nearest and dearest, regardless of how trivial that gossip was.

And, of course, Draco had been well out of the country by that point, and even further out of contact.

From what Neville had explained, Granger and Weasley had in fact been deeply committed to each other. If he hadn't died they would undoubtedly have been married at the end of the war- or perhaps before.

Hermione had been there when Weasley and Potter had been tortured and murdered by Death Eaters. She had escaped physically unscathed but with mental scarring that had never healed. The loss of her lover and friend in such circumstances, and so soon after the death of both her parents in a car crash, had caused her to withdraw into herself, spurning the efforts of her friends to reach her. They had been seriously concerned for her, worried she would do harm to herself. Then she had disappeared and they had all secretly feared the worst.

When Neville had found her again the first time, he had only had time to assure himself that she was well and able to care for the child. It had been obvious to him that she was still deeply immersed in her grief, but it had been only a year after all.

This time, having found her again, he had spent enough time with her to learn that grief wasn't the only emotion that had haunted her for nearly seven years. Deep within her was a rage that had never been unleashed, an anger that waited for its designated target. Neville knew Hermione wanted vengeance on Voldemort and his supporters- he just worried that she would think of Draco as one of them.

Draco didn't think of himself as a Death Eater any longer. It was not a moniker that could apply to him. Yes, he had made mistakes that he bitterly regretted as a boy, but the man he was now was a different person and the people who mattered knew that.

But how could Hermione? She had never spent time with this new him. She didn't know what he had done for the DA or, independently, before that. She saw only the face that had sneered in such hatred during their adolescence. The face that she associated so strongly with the death of Dumbledore and the wounding of Bill Weasley. The face that she had assumed had been present on that awful day that had so decimated her life. The man that she believed had partaken in the death of the one she had thought her soul mate- her love.

No, Draco could not blame Hermione for her hatred.


End file.
